


A penitent sinner

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crisis of Faith, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Roman Catholicism, Self-Flagellation, Stream of Consciousness, a whole lotta hurt, negative thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 01:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15426453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Abraxas weighs up his devotion to his faith and his devotion to Tom.





	A penitent sinner

**Author's Note:**

> It is my headcanon that the Malfoy family (and most of the other super-rich purebloods) followed Roman Catholicism and that at this time the Catholic church isn't supportive of homosexuality (or pretty much anything else I make Abraxas do).

Abraxas kneeled in the church. He looked up at the large crucifix. Bowing his head, he took the rosary from his pocket. His lips found the words he’d said since childhood. They came easily from his head, but less easily from his heart.  
Abraxas wanted to pray, he wanted to find God. But he also wanted Tom. He’d always tried to persuade himself that such feelings would one day harmonise, that maybe they could coexist, a brotherhood. Two people bound by some purpose, a bond so much more profound than a bond by blood, but as he got older it became more obvious that the two weren’t compatible. Tom was a force of nature, a star glowing brighter in the sky and Tom had no time for religion, had no time for faith, dedication, or devotion, unless it was to him, of course. So, Abraxas had pushed back those feelings and pretended they didn’t exist. He pretended that he knew what he was doing, knew where he was going in his life. He pretended to know everything, while inside he twisted and choked and drowned in the never-ending darkness.  
He tried so hard to find the light, the hope, the meaning his parents had, but even as he glanced up at the holiest man in the world, he couldn’t see that light. All Abraxas could see was the gloom. When he looked at Christ, he could see nothing but a man, a man with a vision. All he could see was Tom. A man born from suffering, a man who would make himself, a man who would die for his beliefs.  
Abraxas flung his rosary across the floor in frustration. The beads skidded before coming to a halt against a pew. He sat on his knees staring at the crucifix. He shouldn’t be here alone, but he supposed he was hoping for perfect contrition, to be set free because he couldn’t do this anymore and that made him more abhorrent, more sordid, more cowardly. He didn’t want to talk to the priest, he couldn’t bear the mortification. The way his eyes would pass a heavy judgement over him. The way he would pass out a penance that would leave his back bloodied and eyes red and throat raw.  
Then he would go back to Tom. Back to the one person who would hold him, who would lie with him and hold his hand. That was how it always went, and Abraxas hated himself for it. For being so weak that he would return to Tom and let Tom do nasty, filthy things to him because they felt so good. They tasted so much better than faith, sounded so much better than pain and the marks Tom left behind were made in pleasure, not in guilt. Those marks didn’t sting, didn’t burn, didn’t leave enduring reminders of his cowardice. No, those marks were pretty. Abraxas liked to trace them with his thumb, just to know someone cared.  
Nothing felt as good as Tom between his thighs. Or Tom kissing those scars as he fucked him, hands in his hair, soft little whispers in his ear. When he was with Tom nothing bad could happen, Tom wouldn’t let it. But that didn’t mean Tom understood. He told him just to forget, to not care whatever an invisible God thought of him. It wasn’t that easy though, however much Abraxas wanted to ignore that throbbing in his head, he couldn’t. He felt so empty, cold and sinful afterwards, it ate away at him until he went back to the church and confessed sins he did not have in place of the mortal sins that made him sick.  
“Forgive my sins,” he said, his voice small in the church and so very alone, “I’m sorry – please – please – count the tears of my repentance – please,” he said to the unrelenting crucifix, his voice cracking, and hot tears dripping from his eyes.  
Abraxas didn’t want to be a sinner, but Tom didn’t understand. He didn’t see the poison in their touches, he didn’t appreciate how corrupting his kisses were, he didn’t recognise the disgrace because Tom would never know the shame. He didn’t know how much dishonour this would cause the family, because Tom didn’t have a family, he didn’t know how it would tarnish a reputation because Tom didn’t care for reputations anymore. Tom was free. No name, no expectations, no religion. Abraxas had all of them, and he perverted every single one.  
He looked up at the Crucifix, the faithful son of his Lord; it seemed to pass judgement, the cold eyes chastising him for his weakness. There was no understanding, no forgiveness for his shame. It understood he was filthy and it reprimanded him. Abraxas didn’t doubt it could see Tom’s fingerprints ingrained in his skin. The Lord saw all. He knew Abraxas’ ignominy. He knew Abraxas’ immorality. He’d have seen every thought that made Abraxas so filthy. He’d have seen every action that had infected Abraxas with an impurity no amount of praying would ever remove, and the Lord was disgusted. Abraxas knew he was disgusting.  
If anyone ever asked he would tell them when he sat on the wrong side of the balustrade and hoped the wind would do it, so _he_ wouldn’t have to. If anyone ever asked he would tell them how he spent the day sitting under a tree wondering which branch he could hang himself from. But no one ever asked, and even if they did, such a confession would only make him more corrupt, a wicked immoral boy who didn’t deserve what he had.  
The only one who ever noticed was Tom. Tom wasn’t afraid to hold him when he had found him in the church when the rest of the world was asleep. Tom wasn’t afraid to stroke his hair and listen to him sob. Only murmuring gentle words that made the world so much safer.  
Abraxas assumed he probably deserved eternal condemnation; Tom had been tolerant for so long, soon he wouldn’t be, and Abraxas would have to choose what he wanted: his faith or his love. Tom would make him decide because Tom needed unwavering devotion, his followers had to have a degree of devoutness to him, and if they didn’t he assumed they were not trustworthy  
Abraxas wanted Tom to see, to understand this was his life, however horrid it appeared, this was all he knew, and he couldn’t throw away two decades of faith for a fleeting passion. Nonetheless, he couldn’t ignore the aching hunger in his heart, a dull craving for desire, for dark iniquitous things that made his pulse throb. Tom took the form of every sin, and Abraxas had an appetite for them all. Tom made vice look beautiful, made depravity, debauchery and decadence look divine. It made him want to leave this place, leave his faith at the altar and walk away forever. Abraxas stood up, he was ready to walk away, ready, so ready. But he couldn’t. Not when Christ was watching him, not when the Lord was watching.  
Abraxas sighed and went to pick up the rosary. He was a sinner, but he was still a believer and the Lord was merciful to those who repented. He made the sign of the cross, kneeled, and placed the rosary to his lips.  
Abraxas prayed. He confessed his sins and asked his Lord for forgiveness. He would see the priest tomorrow and he would take any punished he rightly deserved, and he would shun Tom and find the light in the growing dark.  
He knew though, in the depths of his heart, he would do nothing to stop Tom’s lips, he would do nothing to stop Tom’s deific visions swallowing him under their liquid surface. He knew he would lose himself to Tom again, and he would return here and repent.  
But for now, he could pretend he was faithful to his Lord, but whether that was God or Tom, Abraxas was no longer sure.


End file.
